


At the Headwaters

by ingenious_spark



Series: Of Rivers [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Spirited Away Fusion, Family Drama, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, Memory Loss, Multi, Mythology - Freeform, Pining, Possibly Unrequited Love, Spirits, past canonical character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-06 04:34:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11028738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingenious_spark/pseuds/ingenious_spark
Summary: Headwaters: plural noun; the place where a stream starts before it flows into a river, the source of a stream.Every story begins somewhere. Before Findecáno faced the great Sorcerer, a woman lost her life, a man lost himself, and a young man just beginning his own family lost his parents.A greater conspiracy begins to unfold as a man struggles to reconcile his life and his family. A conspiracy that could effect the well-being of two worlds.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Siadea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siadea/gifts).



> A preface: this story is a direct interquel (with prequel-esque leanings) to Tributary, the first fic in this series. As such, it will make very little sense to those who have not read that fic. Thank you!
> 
> A brief note on names: I prefer to use the name of the character that they would themselves use, which is why I'm using the Quenya names. Also, it's an aesthetic choice on my part to stick solely to using the 'c' in their names where a 'k' sound is heard, and I am very aware of this. To that end, please enjoy.
> 
> Dedicated to Siadea, wonderful enabler, without whom I really doubt I'd have ever finished Tributary.
> 
> (Rating is probably gonna change)

_Celegorm helped him get down, and suddenly a bright blue dragon with a beautiful, silt-brown mane erupted from the bath. Findecáno glanced over at Fëanáro, wondering if the spirit could tell who the dragon was, or at least, who Findecáno thought it might be. Judging by the desperate, stricken expression on the spirit’s face, he did, and Findecáno’s guess was right. He gazed after his retreating grandfather with wide eyes. Someone leapt from the observation balcony even as cheering erupted, caught and sped along by wild winds that seemed to respond to their call like faithful companions, disappearing after the dragon river spirit in a flurry of pale blue fabric and wild golden hair. Celegorm whistled lowly._

_“Who was that, to get Lord Ingwë of the Godsmountain gone in such a rush?” He mumbled..._

Fabric and hair fluttered wildly in the wind, until Ingwë shed his two-legged form for four and sped up exponentially. Hooves churned the air, the only noise the sound of the gale as he chased the dragon, who flew like one possessed by malevolence. He pushed his winds and his hooves faster, slowly catching up, even as the dragon dropped into a deep, plummeting dive. Ingwë knew this place, was intimately familiar with the shores of the Alatfinwë River, more commonly known as the Finwë River.

It had been looking lesser, of late, as the humans polluted its counterpart in their world, and its spirit had been missing. Now, as Ingwë watched, Finwë, newly purified, dove into his river, blending and becoming one with the waters. Newfound purity running along banks and bed as the spirit-river became healthy and clean once more.

Ingwë lit on careful cloven hooves on the riverbank, peering in. His own reflection sparkled back at him, white and gold, scales and mane and antlers. He sent wind to stir the waters, to summon Finwë back to him.

“Friend, show yourself, please,” He said softly, and Finwë’s human-form head rose above the waters, blue eyes wide and wary, brown hair flowing atop the water. Ingwë shifted as well, dragon-deer sliding into his human-like form. His long hair, fine as cornsilk and cut in a choppy and uneven style, was immediately stirred by his breezes, agitated as he was. His robe was a little worse for the wear, and he tightened his sky-blue sash before he accidentally flashed Finwë. He knelt in the muddy growth of the riverbank, regarding Finwë solemnly.

“Do I know you? I feel I should,” his old friend said. Ingwë felt a flash of fear.

“Of course you do, we've been friends forever,” he laughed nervously, voice rough and low. “Hey, so why did you run out like that?” He tried. Finwë frowned, chin dipping deeper into the water - uncomfortable.

“I wasn't supposed to be there, I was causing him pain. The man who looks like me. He made me feel… guilty.” Finwë muttered. Ingwë’s heart sank.

“If you don't remember your own kid, you really aren't faking it. Do you even know your own name?” He asked despairingly, even as his mind churned through the ways in which Finwë could have lost his memory. If he'd gone through a Gate to the mortal realm unprepared, that could do it, but why would he do that?

“No, I don't. I used to know it.” Finwë frowned. “I _almost_ know it. I think it started with an ‘F’.” He looked up at Ingwë hopefully. “If you are my friend, then you know what it is, tell me!” He requested, or maybe demanded. Ingwë capitulated, hoping it might repair his addled memories.

“Finwë, you like to be called, of the Alatfinwë River, the Finwë River.” Ingwë told him quietly, and watched as blue eyes grew wide, and the river spirit pulled himself from the waters to embrace Ingwë. Ingwë clutched his best friend tightly, tucking Finwë’s silky brown head under his chin. Ingwë’s blue robe grew damp and chilly as they sat on the riverbank together, but he barely noticed.

“What _happened_ , Finwë?” Ingwë asked presently. Finwë huffed a soft sigh against Ingwë’s throat.

“I used to take walks, right? After Míriel was murdered,” he said softly, like he was having trouble, still, sifting through those memories. “I thought, maybe, if I retraced her steps I might understand what had drawn her to the mortal world, why she went through so often, how that hunter had the opportunity to kill her. I never went through the Gate, though. It… scared me, I think. And I had to think of Fëanáro, he needed me, even if he was an adult in his own right.” Finwë sighed again, warm breath against Ingwë’s throat. “I screwed that up big time, didn't I? It was right after their child’s birth. They were so happy, and I couldn't see anything beyond myself, Míriel, and Fëanáro. It wasn't fair to them, so I took a walk. I ended up at the Gate, just, looking through it. I think I was depressed,” he let out a dry chuckle, and Ingwë firmed his grip on the river spirit. “Something or someone, I suppose, pushed me through the Gate. I didn't have time to wrap my magic around my mind to keep myself protected, so I… lost myself.”

“Did you see them? The person who pushed you through?” Ingwë asked, trying not to press too hard. Finwë shook his head, leaning back in Ingwë’s hold, looking up at him earnestly.

“I didn't. I'm sorry. If I knew I'd tell you, you believe me, right?” He asked softly, blue eyes burning with intensity.

“I believe you, silly,” Ingwë smiled softly. “Unless it was someone you wanted to protect, like Fëanáro or someone, and with the way he fell apart after you disappeared, I don't believe that for a second.” Finwë’s face crumpled into grief and guilt.

“Was it bad?” He asked, soft and almost reluctant. Ingwë winced, unable to stop himself.

“Yes. For a long time he was convinced it was his fault, I'm not sure he ever forgave himself. He thought everyone he loved would leave him. I practically moved in to help Nerdanel with him and the children. Oh! A happy thing,” he brightened, smiling softly, “You have more grandchildren. A _lot_ more. A total of seven of the little beasties.” He grinned down at Finwë who looked startled and excited, his eyes bright with happy tears. Finwë loved children. Ingwë decided not to tell him what happened later. Not yet. “So what happened after that?” He prompted. Finwë shook his head as if to clear it.

“Yes, right. Um. I woke up by the riverbank, where they-” his voice hitched, “where they found Míriel’s corpse. It was the same Gate, after all.” He said shakily. Ingwë gave his upper arms a comforting squeeze. “I couldn't remember anything, not even my name. A woman found me, she took me in, she tried to help discover who I was, but I wasn't human, so it didn't work. Finally the human police and lawyers gave me new identification papers, and a name - Finwë, for the river I was found beside.” His mouth twisted at the irony. “The humans don't know the full name of the river anymore. So, the woman who took me in, her name was Indis. She was lovely, sweet, kind. A little sad. She-” his eyes grew wide and he urgently clutched at Ingwë’s shoulders.

“Ingwë, I think she was who Míriel visited! She told me of a swan on the river she used to play with as a child. A hunter shot her, and she chased him away by screaming. She ran home to get her mother and a veterinarian, but by the time she got back someone had taken the swan. She always thought the hunter had come back for her.” Finwë’s eyes were wide, and his cheeks lightly flushed. Ingwë considered it carefully. It fit, disturbingly well. He bit his lip slightly. This was why the Elder Council was against interaction between the worlds, was advocating the sealing of all Gates. Míriel was one of their most convincing arguments. But a human had tried to save Míriel, had later taken a spirit into her home and life. It didn't make sense.

“It fits,” he said reluctantly. “But you were telling me what happened in the human world.” Ingwë was unsettled, feared the answers. The leader and elder of the wind spirits of the Godsmountain was on the Elder Council, was the driving force behind trying to convince the spirit community to seal the Gates. Finwë could have been trapped in the human world _forever_.

“Right.” Finwë paused, looking conflicted, a little guilty. “I, ah, ended up marrying her. Indis, I mean. We, um. Had children. Four of them.” Finwë looked awkward. Ingwë was horrified.

“You- but- _what_ ?” He gasped, pale gold eyes wide. “That's-” he paused, not even sure what to say. The Elder Council- they would _definitely_ be against this. “A-are they human?” He whispered the question, afraid of the answer. Finwë looked nearly guilty.

“I-I don't know?” He was whispering too now. They paused, uncertain, still wrapped in each other's arms. “I should go back. If- if I couldn't take care of Fëanáro I should at least take care of my other children. Of my wife.” He said, biting his lip, blue eyes dark with guilt. Ingwë’s arms tightened around Finwë for a single, selfish moment, before he forced himself to break the embrace, as naturally as he could.

“Do you know how long you've been gone? Your wife could be remarried, or possibly even dead. We have no way of knowing what way the currents of Time are flowing.” He pointed out, somewhat reluctantly. He didn't want to disappoint Finwë, but it was the truth. Finwë’s lovely face crumpled slightly.

“Y-you're right… but don't I owe it to them to try?” He asked softly, vulnerable in a way that made Ingwë ache.

“Let yourself heal, Finwë, you were just barely purified,” he begged his oldest friend. Finwë nodded tentatively, resting his forehead against Ingwë’s shoulder, letting out a shaky sigh. Ingwë looked him over, trying to see if he was hurt, and finally realized the river spirit was quite naked. Smooth, warm brown skin was covered only with the damp, thick, brown-black cloak of Finwë’s stupidly long hair. “We should get you something to wear, and I think you should take a nap.” He murmured, gazing at Finwë warmly, less chastely than he really should. Finwë surprised then both by yawning widely, a hand coming up to belatedly cover his mouth politely. Ingwë chuckled, and Finwë smiled ruefully.

“You’re right, of course.” He rubbed his eyes with the back of a hand, sliding his legs back into the river. “Don't let me rest too long.” He warned, before slipping into the water, vanishing entirely. Ingwë sighed, soft and wistful, before finding an accommodating willow tree rooted on the bank and curling up in the branches.

"You're a fool, Ingwë, a lovesick, utter fool.” He muttered to himself before closing his eyes and listening to the rushing water of the river, the way his breezes, calm now, stirred the drooping branches of the tree.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I can't write dialects for shit, so I went back and edited Ingwë's dialogue. 
> 
> Sorry this is so late, I got involved in other projects, and I also got married.

Ingwë drifted lazily above the water, before dipping his fingers into the cool water, wiggling them. Finwë surfaced almost immediately, a slight frown on his beautiful face.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to do that?” He said bossily, batting Ingwë’s fingers away. “It _tickles_.” Now the river spirit looked positively affronted. Ingwë giggled helplessly.

“But you always look so cute when I do it!” He cooed. Finwë rolled his eyes.

“I found my palace. It's in slight disrepair, but you're welcome to come help me put it in order.” Finwë said, and Ingwë smiled fondly at him, wrapping wind around himself before plunging through the surface. He knew how much the rites of hospitality mattered to Finwë, for him to invite Ingwë in to help him sort things out was a huge display of trust.

It had clearly been picked up at least a little, Finwë’s inherently fussy nature having asserted itself. Fish spirits drifted here and there, cleaning up debris, some in full spirit form, some in the half-fish, half-human form that had given rise to so many human folk stories. Finwë himself wore his top half as human, long hair drifting in the water like rich brown seagrass. His lower half was the serpentine form of his dragon aspect, even more beautiful in Finwë’s natural environment. Smooth blue scales rippled with the dim light from above, casting him in shadow and depth.

Most of the clutter was stray seaweed and stones, a thick layer of silt that needed to be swept out and returned to the river to nurture it. The shells decorating the palace were scrubbed and polished, healthy river plants replanted to decorate, rotted seagrass bedding swept out with the silt and replaced with fresh.

It took a few days, the two of them and the fish spirits who swam through on their ways elsewhere. Ingwë waited for Finwë to speak, and over the course of the week he heard more about his life as a mortal.

It worried Ingwë, how normal it all sounded. The mortals seemed to have developed their own sort of magic, and his wife worked for a company pressing to make their technology more ‘green’, friendlier for the natural world. It was working, too, several human nations were now completely powered by the sun, like plants. It baffled Ingwë, but then, he was a creature of flight and wind and sky, not of the earth and growing things.

His wife, Indis, sounded beautiful, the way he described her so lovingly. He'd truly loved the mortal, for the time he'd spent with her, a love formed of friendship. That was Finwë’s problem, he was too loving, too easy to love. Míriel had been the same way.

Ingwë had long given up hope that maybe someday, Finwë might look at him, too, and love him. They'd known each other since they had first been born into the world, and never once had Finwë done so. Ingwë was half-convinced that he saw him as a brother more than anything else. It was a bittersweet ache, but Ingwë preferred it to not having Finwë at all.

Míriel had known, and he'd known that she knew, and for a while he'd tried to keep his distance, painful as it was. Míriel had come to him, lovely, sweet Míriel, and told him to come back to them. Told him she didn't mind that he loved Finwë too. She had held him while he cried over the fact that Finwë had never, would probably never, look at him the same was Ingwë looked at him, and she had understood. In a way, he'd come to love Míriel, too, as a kindred spirit. He had been just as grief stricken as Finwë when she died.

Indis was kind, hardworking, and didn't put up with melodramatics, according to Finwë. Listening to Finwë wax rhapsodic about golden curls and a sweet, pink-stained, wry smile, he felt like he had when Finwë came to him about Míriel. Indis was practical, apparently, different from Míriel’s sweet gracefulness. She'd once punched a man in the face because someone in the pub they had gone to had mistaken Finwë (shorter than Indis, with longer hair), for a woman and called them derogatory names. The man’s nose had been bloodied, he'd been ejected from the pub, and their drinks had been free that night.

She sounded like a spitfire, and Finwë sounded absolutely smitten, even now. Ingwë wondered guiltily if she would even take him back should he go, and she still be alive. Finwë spoke of her kindness, but was that enough? Did her love for Finwë outweigh his abandonment of her? Should it? He hadn't left her and their children purposefully, but she had no way of knowing that.

Ingwë found the whole situation extremely troubling. He sighed softly, and Finwë turned luminous, curious eyes on him.

“You said I had more grandchildren, Ingwë,” he changed the subject gracefully. “Will you tell me about them? About how my son coped with my- my disappearance?” He asked quietly, drifting down onto a soft bed of grasses, his body piled in elegant coils. Ingwë cuddled close, reluctant, but wanting all the contact Finwë would permit him.

“Not terribly well. Between me and Círdan and Nerdanel he pulled through. He missed you, badly, even though he never said a word, you could see it in his eyes. And I think he always thought it was his fault, y’know?” He sighed, and Finwë tucked his face against Ingwë’s chest. “So, grandchildren. They named their eldest Maitimo, pretty little river dragon like you. Got really tall, though.” Finwë smacked his chest reflexively.

“Not short,” he grumbled, and Ingwë just smiled.

“Their second son, Macalaurë, is a nightingale, beautiful singing voice, can play pretty much anything you put in his hands. Tyelcormo is the third son, he's a fire spirit like Fëanáro. He likes physical activity, very energetic. I think he'd do well in the Lord of Hounds’ Wild Hunt. Their fourth son, Carnistir-”

“Wait, did they have _any_ daughters? Other children?” Finwë asked, looking up at Ingwë, propping his forearms against Ingwë’s chest.

“Nope, just sons. So, Carnistir is very scholarly, kind of bad tempered. Fantastic with numbers, a little gem spirit. Takes after his mum. Number five is Curufinwë,” Finwë beamed at the realization that at least one of his grandchildren was named after him. “He's another flame spirit, the spitting image of his Da. Crafty little thing. Next are the twins, Pityafinwë and Telufinwë. Pair of little foxes, cute as buttons and twice as mischievous.”

“Foxes? Where in our ancestry are there animal spirits?” Finwë wondered softly. Ingwë shrugged.

“I think Nerdanel’s side?” He offered. He sighed, twisting his fingers together nervously. Finwë curled his dragon’s body around Ingwë catching his hands in his own.

“Tell me, Ingwë. I can handle it. You can't coddle me forever, and I don't want you to.” Finwë compelled him, gentle and implacable. Ingwë crumpled, giving in to his selfishness to catch Finwë in a tight hug, hiding his face in the crook of Finwë’s neck. He didn't want to have to watch Finwë’s face when he told him what had become of his family.

“Nerdanel wanted to move out to her parents’ place down in Swamp Bottom to focus on raising the kids, and shut down the bathhouse temporarily,” he said, soft and terse. “They fought about it- Fëanáro’s temper got even worse after you disappeared. He thought closing the bathhouse would- I don't know, shame Míriel’s memory somehow, or something like that. They fought, and it was really, really bad. The kids- you know how kids are- they were snooping at the door. Fëanáro flung a spell, Nerdanel deflected it, and the kids got caught in the backlash. Nerdanel ran for it with the twins, who weren't caught up in the spell, back out to Swamp Bottom, and Fëanáro had to deal with everything else.” He sighed.

“How did the twins escape?”

“I think they were napping. That's my theory, anyway. So Fëanáro cast a spell over the majority of workers in the bathhouse, in a bit of a panic, to make sure they didn't remember the kids or Nerdanel. A pretty awful thing to do, but Fëanáro never did make good choices when he was panicking or angry. He couldn't pull the spell off the kids, so he just kept them in the bathhouse, employed them. Trying to keep them safe, I think.” He shrugged, still not looking at Finwë.

“Thank you for telling me, Ingwë.” Finwë said softly, pressing a soft kiss to Ingwë’s head.

“You're not mad at me?” He asked, soft and hesitant. “I tried to keep them safe and I failed.”

“But you _tried_. It wasn't anything you had to do, but you did it anyway, for me. That means a lot to me.” Finwë assured him. Ingwë breathed deeply, Finwë’s scent of clear, running water soothing him. “Do you think he still loves me?” Finwë whispered into the cloud of Ingwë’s hair.

“Of course he still loves you. Everyone you meet loves you.” Ingwë said without thinking. He froze seconds later, barely daring to breathe, realizing what he'd just inadvertently confessed.

“No everyone, surely? I know several people never liked me much,” Finwë objected obliviously. Ingwë resumed breathing, suppressing a spike of disappointment.

“Yeah, but even they probably didn't mind you too much. You're just a likeable person, Finwë.” Ingwë glanced up at him, and Finwë was gazing into the distance, looking slightly troubled. Ingwë took the chance, like he usually did, to drink in his features with wistful longing.

“Do I really have the right to seek any of them out, though?” Finwë asked, soft and wretched. “I abandoned them- _all_ of them. I didn't mean to, I didn't want to, but I still _did_ it.” Ingwë considered carefully, as Finwë coils flexed and tangled around him. Ingwë didn't want to give him a rushed answer. He gently stroked Finwë’s side, making sure to go with the grain of his scales. Finwë was practically bleeding anxiety. At this rate he was going to actually get tangled, something he hadn't done since they were young.

“I think… I think all of you need closure. You need to go visit everyone, but you also need to remember that they might not want to reconcile. And that's their choice, and you have to respect that. But you deserve the chance to see them all again. To explain why you just vanished from their lives, you know? They might not want to listen, but I think you need to make that effort.” Ingwë said slowly. Finwë nodded, some of that anxiety leaving him in a soft, heaving sigh. Ingwë kept up his gentle stroking until Finwë’s coils were soft and lax, his human half draped over the pile of his coils and Ingwë both. “Take some time, though, Finwë,” he whispered, achingly intimate. “You can't just go off in a whim. Like I said the other day, you need time to heal.”

“You'll be here, for me?” Finwë whispered back, soft and vulnerable. Ingwë smiled tenderly.

“I'll always be here for you,” he promised, rash and reckless but honest. Ingwë had never been particularly smart when it came to Finwë.

They slept in that knotted-up pile, like they used to as children. When Ingwë woke, it was because his breezes were growing weaker. He needed to go up to the surface and replenish them. He gently shook Finwë awake.

“I need to go up to the surface,” he told Finwë gently, and Finwë whined reluctantly and began to try to unravel himself. He paused, and Ingwë felt a sinking sensation. “Finwë?” He asked, softly resigned. Finwë looked horribly embarrassed.

“...I might be slightly stuck,” Finwë admitted very, very softly. Ingwë couldn't help himself, he laughed until tears were rolling down his face, Finwë pouting at him the whole time.

“You haven't tied yourself in actual knots since we were colts!” Ingwë gasped, wiping tears from his cheeks. His face ached from laughing so hard. Finwë puffed his cheeks out and blew bubbles at him like a guppy.

“Yes, fine, I might be somewhat unused to my body again.” He rolled his eyes. “Can you help me, or not?” He asked, just a touch impatient. Ingwë breathed for a minute, regaining his composure.

“Yes, give me a moment,” he chuckled, before worming his way out of Finwë’s coils. “Relax, will you? I can help better if I'm free.”

“I _am_ relaxing,” Finwë grouched back, and soon Ingwë pulled free. He turned back to Finwë, and helped him untangle his long, serpentine body. He kept giggling, but Finwë ignored him graciously. Once Finwë was free, he accompanied Ingwë back to the surface, watching him as he floated in the air, conversing with some chatty breezes, catching up on gossip and rumour.

“Am I a big rumour right now?” He asked, smiling up at Ingwë.

“That you are. As well as the fact that some kid broke Fëanáro’s curse, and Nerdanel came back to him!” Ingwë said excitedly, trying to gather more facts and less hearsay. Finwë’s eyes went wide.

“Really?” He asked, breathless and excited, too.

“According to the rumours!” Ingwë replied cheerfully. “We should give them time to actually reconcile, though.” He warned. Finwë drooped.

“Why do you always have to make sense? You're a wind spirit, you should be flighty and impulsive,” he complained, blowing pouty bubbles over the surface of the water. Ingwë smiled down at him.

“Generalizations, Finwë,” he reminded cheekily. Finwë merely pouted.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mm, sorry this took so long. I've just been really busy in my other fandoms, and my Tolkien muses went on vacation. I've joined the Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang, though, so I should be more inspired! Hopefully.

_ “Generalizations, Finwë,” he reminded cheekily. Finwë merely pouted. _

Ingwë sobered, considering what Finwë wished to do. Was he really thinking about doing this? If this got back to the leader of the Godsmountain… or, swift winds forbid, the Elder Council. A breeze twined curiously through his fingers, wondering why he'd stopped laughing, and he petted it gently. Finwë watched him with those luminous blue eyes.

“What are you thinking of?” He asked quietly. Ingwë smiled crookedly.

“That you're going to get me into trouble again, and I'm just going to follow you straight into it.” He said softly. 

“Excuse me, but I think you'll find you're usually the one running straight for trouble.” Finwë teased gently, clearly remembering some of the misadventures of their youth.

“But right now who's getting me to go somewhere I really shouldn't?” he teased back. Finwë sobered, smile dropping from his face. 

“You don't need to accompany me, when I go.” He murmured softly. Ingwë’s smile went soft and crooked.

“Nevertheless, I will go with you,” he swore softly. “Too long have I been without you, Finwë. I would have thought you dead, save no one tried to claim your river as their domain.” He chuckled softly at Finwë’s offended expression, so much like his son- like his  _ first _ son. That was going to take some getting used to.

“I appreciate your companionship, Ingwë, I means so much to me. But, what of your own family? Surely you have not spent all these years alone?” Finwë looked concerned, genuinely worried. Ingwë bit back an inappropriate, slightly hysterical laugh. 

“I have no family. I have… yet to meet one willing to marry me, who I also wished to marry.” There, that was the truth. Ingwë had not lacked for suitors, to be honest, his position and gentle, genial nature attracting their fair share of admirers. He'd been tempted, once or twice, but realized in time that he was merely attracted to them because they were small and slim and graceful, or had long brown hair, or bright blue eyes. Because they reminded him of Finwë. Finwë looked even more worried.

“Well, I guess these things take time, sometimes…” he muttered. “Really, though? You're not even courting anyone?” He asked, even more concerned. “I- you've never courted anyone, to my knowledge. You've barely ever even expressed interest in anyone. Are you- I mean, do you not have an interest in such things?” He asked, a touch awkwardly. Ingwë felt familiar, helpless love swell in his breast.

“I am, but perhaps to a lesser degree than some. I've had people call me picky, before.” Ingwë smiled warmly at Finwë, wondering how he did not know. Surely this deep emotion that welled up in him showed? How could Finwë not know? It baffled him every time. Finwë was nodding slowly, though.

“I should return to my palace, I want to make sure none of the fish spirits have any issues they wish to bring before me.” He said, thankfully dropping the issue. “You're welcome to come back with me, or stay up here. Whatever your wish.” He said. Ingwë elected to remain on the surface for a while, enjoying  the fresh air. After a while, even with his natural abilities circulating the air, Finwë’s palace got a little stuffy. 

They spent a while in Finwë’s river-court, dealing with the issues that had cropped up in Finwë’s absence.

Ingwë could tell when Finwë’s attention began to wane. He kept looking up, to the wavering surface of the water, his bright eyes distant. 

“Where will you start?” He asked softly, eyes fixed on Finwë’s distant expression. Finwë blinked himself back into reality. 

“I had a thought to start with my mortal family. I have… less time to go to them.” He said, lips curved down in a soft frown. It troubled him, his family's mortality. Ingwë supposed in his place, he would also be troubled. This is really why there was such a push against interspecies relationships- in Ingwë’s opinion, the most convincing one. 

“We'll have to find a Gate, then, and that's going to be easier said than done. The Elder Council’s push for closing them has been working pretty well. We're going to have to find someone who's been protecting one, probably.” Ingwë fiddled restlessly with his hair.

“How do we go about doing that?” Finwë questioned. Ingwë’s mouth twisted in chagrin. That was the question, wasn't it? Anyone protecting a gate would be extremely leery of giving it away. 

“Give me a couple of days, to see what I can dig up.” Ingwë proposed. “There must be rumors that haven't reached the Godsmountain.” Finwë nodded, and Ingwë departed for the surface. 

Corralling rumours was a difficult task, even for a wind spirit. Winds didn't travel as far as many people thought they did- at least, not winds that caught people’s conversations. And those conversations didn't last nearly as long as, again, many people thought. Winds usually caught snippets, and most of them weren't terribly useful. Ingwë was one of the best at sorting through and interpreting rumors, extrapolating on the little snaps of conversation he heard, but even for him it took time. And travel. After the first two days proved unfruitful, he said a brief goodbye and churned the wind under his hooves, flitting here and there, listening and sorting. 

Finally, as he rested high in the branches of an ancient tree, a young northern goshawk spirit perched on a branch below him.

“I've heard tell there's a wind spirit searching for a Gate. What purpose have you, if I may be so bold as to ask?” The young one asked politely, voice sweet and light. Ingwë glanced down at him consideringly. 

“I wish to help a dear friend of mine,” he replied noncommittally. Ingwë really doesn't want this to get all the way back to the Godsmountain. The young goshawk chirped, sounding faintly annoyed.

“Help them do what, close the gate? Because no one will help you if that is your goal, you must know this.” 

“I do know this, and I pledge by my name, Ingwë of the Godsmountain, that I do not seek to close the Gate.” Ingwë watched, amused, as the young goshawk lost their perch and tumbled ungracefully through the air until they landed on another branch, wheezing at the impact. He floated down and checked them over, well aware of the trouble and injury an excitable young bird could get themself into. 

“I'm fine, thank you,” the young bird gasped. “Just- caught off guard. That Ingwë of the Godsmount would swear such a thing by his own name!” They twittered anxiously. Ingwë smiled, amused and understanding. He was somewhat well-known, through no doing of his own that he knew of. Possibly his sheer age, possibly his position as dearest friend of one of the First. And, since Manwë, head of the Elder Council, was the one actively pressing for the closure of all Gates, to hear Ingwë swear the most solemn oath of spiritkind that he did not seek the closure of the gate… well it was no wonder the poor thing was surprised. 

“Aye. I take it by your questioning that you know of a Gate?” The goshawk looked shocked, and he chuckled. “Come now, you'll need a few more centuries to get something like that past me.” 

“Oh, fine.” The goshawk puffed out their cheeks. “I'm Penlodh, hailing from the Tower of Snow, I take male pronouns.” He said, fluffing the feathers that made a ruff around his throat, and resettling himself on the new branch. Ingwë drifted down to sit beside him.

“Ingwë, hailing from the Godsmountain, I also take male pronouns.” He replied in kind, wondering if this was a new way of greeting strangers.

“If you swear the Gate will be kept safe, then why would you want to see it? What friend are you trying to help?” he asked, clear red eyes intent and serious. Ingwë considered his answer with equal seriousness. 

“Have you heard of Finwë?” He asked, watching Penlodh quietly. Penlodh blinked, surprised. 

“I have. He's the one the case for closing all the Gates is based on, him and his wife, Míriel. I heard a rumor he was seen again, down at the saints’ bathhouse.” Penlodh replied cautiously. 

“He was, I was there. He's spent time since he went missing in the mortal world, and he wants to go back.” Ingwë said delicately, aware he was treading in dangerous territory. “Not to stay, mind you, just to- revisit something he left behind.” Ingwë chose his words very carefully, watching the young goshawk’s eyes widen. 

“I see.” He murmured, and Ingwë waited patiently for him to speak again. The winds this far north were cold, and didn't speak as many rumors and snatches as those more southerly. He was lucky, very lucky, that Penlodh chose to seek him out, and he recognized that. Penlodh drew himself up, nodding decisively. 

“Very well, I can lead you to a Gate. You must swear on your name that you will never tell or show anyone where it is, or tell anyone or inform them in any way that I know where a Gate is, and your friend must also swear this. Fetch him, and I will meet you at this tree, say, in a week’s time? Is that adequate?” Penlodh asked, and Ingwë grinned at him broadly. 

“Of course. Do you want me to swear now, or when I get Finwë?” Ingwë asked promptly. 

“Now,” Penlodh requested. Ingwë swore dutifully, the words Penlodh had asked of him. The young one was remarkably thorough, Ingwë approved. Giving Penlodh another warm, grateful smile, he leapt from the tree to the air, transforming into his dragon-deer form and racing back to Finwë’s river.

He made the journey in record time, barely pausing as he wrapped winds around himself and plunged beneath the surface.

Finwë was waiting outside his palace as Ingwë galloped up, eyes wide.

“Are you well? Such haste takes you, Ingwë!” He says, laying a chilly hand on Ingwë’s scaled neck. 

“My apologies, Finwë. I have found what we discussed! We have four days to reach it.” Ingwë said, hooves pawing the water impatiently. Finwë brightened. 

“Of course! Let me pack. Are you packed? I don't know how long I'll want to stay.” Finwë replied, swimming with haste to his chambers. Spell-protected silken robes were shoved almost haphazardly into a satchel along with a full money-pouch, less extravagant clothes, and a few other necessary items. Ingwë reflected sheepishly on having left his bags at the bathhouse. He hadn't even settled his bill! How embarrassing. 

“Ah, no, I left my things at the bathhouse. I'm afraid we'll have to make a quick side trip.” He said, and Finwë shook his head with fond annoyance. 

“Very well. Let me just let everyone know I'll be back, and we can go.” He shoulders the bag and swims determinedly out, to suit action to words. His courtiers were distressed, and it took him nearly an hour to get them calmed so they could go.

Breaking the surface, Finwë transformed into his human shape, clad in ridiculous flowing robes. He pulled himself out onto the bank and began quickly braiding his stupidly long brown hair. Ingwë was grateful for that, because he'd taken Finwë flying before, and it was never fun to have that mass of hair tangled in his antlers or stinging his rump. He found his inner patience, and waited until Finwë was ready. He tipped his head and allowed brown fingers to wrap around the base of one antler, helping him up onto his smooth, scaly back. 

“Hold tight, my friend,” he warned, and ensured he could feel that firm grip, with hands in his mane and knees against his sides, before calling up his winds and leaping into the air.

He left Finwë outside the bathhouse village by his request, transforming and heading straight for the concierge. The kind hot springs spirit chastised him, but had his belongings brought out from storage as they settled the bill. The fee for skipping out on his bill put a dent in his finances, but money, to him, was a rather ephemeral thing. He didn't mind. Especially since not trying to contest it meant that the concierge never even mentioned bringing Fëanáro downstairs. He returned quickly, and Finwë helped strap Ingwë’s bags over his back.

“You must put on a padded jacket. What we seek is far north,” He told Finwë, and waited while the river spirit rolled his eyes gently and pulled out a jacket, pulling it on and securing the front tie. He then let Finwë mount up again, and took to the skies.

They made it back to the ancient, enormous tree where Ingwë had met Penlodh, and waited, quiet and still. They were just under the wire of the week’s time frame, but they made it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, a quick poll of anyone who sees this! I've been flip-flopping between doing Finwë/Ingwë and doing Finwë/Ingwë/Indis, what would y'all like to see?

**Author's Note:**

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